


when you die

by bunnymenecho



Category: IT, IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Dysmorphia, Body Image, Comments and feedback welcome, Creepy Patrick Hockstetter, Depressing, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Eating, Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, I’m sorry richie tozier, Lowercase, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Read at Your Own Risk, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie has a bad time, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Violence, Violent Thoughts, graphi, it might not get better, okay, thank you, trigger warning, will edit soon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27487627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnymenecho/pseuds/bunnymenecho
Summary: not sure.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

patrick hockstetter could punch richie till he’s on the floor, bleeding, half conscious and richie would not say anything. he would let him have his way. he had developed an unhealthy dependency on not only him, but the drugs and the occasional mutual masterbation he was rewarded with.

it’s not like richie adored him or anything. their relationship was nothing more than a ‘i give you this, you give me that’ sort of thing. though there are times where that seems questionable, (even to richie) when after richie gives patrick an impressionable handjob, patrick rewards him with the usual oxy, maybe a few xans when he’s got them on hand, and then he pats the space next to him on his bed and lets richie crawl into his arms. he holds him there for the rest of the night or until richie pries away. or he’ll randomly kiss him on the lips in the same way mutual lovers would if they were in love. sometimes richie just likes to hold his hand.

but there are other times, when it gets bad, really bad. where patrick gets violent, where richies sanity is held together by a single thread. fear overwhelms him and he shakes. he know’s whats going to happen, and its in those times that he’s reminded no one will ever love him.


	2. the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree

richie’s stomach grumbled. 

his stomach burned with hunger. longing for food it hadn’t had in 2 days. 

he wouldn’t eat today, maybe not tomorrow either. 

he couldn’t. 

he got up from the mush of limbs and depression that was his bed and walked to the bathroom. he stared at his reflection in the mirror. his eyes glazed over as he looked at himself and he frowned. 

he would not cry. 

these last few weeks have been bad. 

he’s been feeling bad. 

the feeling of the days molding together to create a seemingly never ending cycle of dull, numb, pain, along with the tremors and the body aches of a withdrawal he didn’t know he was going through, was extremely appalling. unavoidable. no matter what he did, he didn’t have the will to get out of bed, a trip to the bathroom was the trip of a lifetime...if he even made it there. 

it is better sometimes. 

weeks that he doesn’t feel overwhelmingly tired and sad, no constant push on his chest and his heart. weeks where his bed is nice and clean, he is nice and clean. weeks where a bite of food is easier. 

he felt empty. his entire body felt empty. he felt like he was going crazy, like something was missing, and he needs something to settle it. he’s noticed he feels this whenever he’s stopped taking the pills. it’s like a constant itch that he can’t seem to scratch. one that drives him crazy.

he takes off the oversized, long sleeve shirt he had been wearing for the past 4 days and looks back at his reflection, eyes gazing at his pale thin frame in the reflection. 

a tear slips. 

he runs his hands over his skin. over his shoulder, down to his protruding ribs where he feels a sharp pain over a light purple bruise. 

another tear slips.

his skin was fare and smooth. any blemish, bruise, or wound extremely noticeable in comparison to his pale skin, along with dark hair growing along his thin arms. 

his hair greased down and frames his face. he places a cold, shaking hand on his face and feels at his sunken cheeks. his body was trembling, and covered with a cold sweat. he wipes the tears from his eyes and a flame of anger flashes through him. 

why did he always have to cry. why was he always such a fucking baby. why couldn’t he just control his emotions. it seemed he cried for anything these days. 

his tears of sadness and sorrow turned into angry, frustrated tears.  
he could feel his face get hot and his stomach burn. he watched his nose and eyes turn an evident shade of red. 

he turned on the sink and freezing cold water spewed out. (it’s a miracle water still runs in this place.) he leaned down and opened his hand under the stream of water and drank from it.

a meal fit for a king. 

***

as he lays back in his pool of tears, sweat, and grease, he’s reminded of his mother.

he remembers seeing movies where kids have strong and healthy mother figures. women to look up to and go to in times of need. 

he wants a mother, to hold him and hug him while he cries. to listen to and mend his pain. to his kiss forehead and genuinely love and care for him. 

he has this fantasy, 

a women, tall and beautiful, and resembles his same features, runs a hand through his soft black locks, no longer drenched in grease. his skin soft now and filled with color. no marks or bruises. there’s the warmth of the sun, or simply her fingertips. she will call him kind words and tell him how much she loves him. he will ask her about all of his wonders and feel warm and genuine. he won’t hide, he won’t feel pain. 

and then there’s a soft thump at his window. 

another tump.

a tear slips down richie’s cheek. he knows its patrick. he doesn’t know whether he feels relief or dread. relief because he wont be swallowed by his terrible thoughts, patrick will most likely bring pills, he’ll finally have a distraction and be able to mend the itch, or dread because its patrick. he knows what he’s here for. 

he knows what happens if he says no. 

no drugs, maybe a punch or two. 

and then patrick is pissed at him. 

if he’s really desperate, he’ll keep touching him. 

it’s best to comply, to submit, not because he wants to, but in means of survival.

another, harder, seemingly agitated thud. 

he pulls his body up with all his strength. he wants to cry again, he can feel a whine forming in his throat. he wonders why patrick won’t just use the front door. his parents are never home. parick knows that. 

he swallows. 

patrick crawls into his window. 

“mornin’ darlin’. have a nice sleep?” patrick says to him. 

it’s 7:37. p.m. 

in some ways he thinks patrick is just like him. if he didn’t have such a rocky-two sided relationship with him and an evident past of teasing and bullying, richie actually thought they could be friends. they shared the same sense of humor in a way, but their thoughts and their morals were very different. maybe it’s just the humor they had in common? 

“i’ve got something different” he says.

richie looks up at him slightly intrigued, knowing he’s talking about the drugs. 

“i’ve got adderral, couple of xand and some vicodin. i’m in the mood for some head, if you do that for me i give you the usual. blah blah.” patrick speaks running and hand under richie’s jaw to grasp at his neck. a smile curls patrick’s lips, cruel and vile. “ready faggot?” the tone of his voice unmatched to the almost gentle caress of his hand on richie’s jaw, he makes a slur sound like a pet name.

its humoring, the way they talked about drugs as if they were candy. it reminds him of when him and his friends would trade halloween candy in the wee hours of morning, the room filled with laughter and innocence. richie almost wants to laugh at how easy life was then. how easy it was to be happy. he feels a sharp pang in his chest. a tear threatening to form. the happiness that once filled his room, gone. 

richie nods his head. he needs the pain to go away. he needs his nerves to settle and the constant itch to subside. he needs the drugs, especially with the promise of something new, he hasn’t had adderal. he knows little to nothing about drugs. he knows his parents have taken pills all his life. probably out of state doing the same thing he’s doing right now. the apple doest fall to far from the tree. 

patrick knew what he was doing when he started offering richie the pills. he began by giving them to richie for free. telling him they’d make him feel unbelievable. euphoric. he knew the exact moment richie began to show signs of attachment. if not forsexual purposes then certainly for the drugs. 

patrick had power over richie, he had watched him over the course of weeks, slowly lose all his dignity and self respect. he watched as richie learned to beg, just for a pill or two, to offer his body to him. anything, because he was developing an addiction. 

richie didn’t know, because a town like derry definitely doesn’t teach alcohol and drug use prevention. 

richie nods his head at the offer. and kneels down in front of where patrick has sat himself at the foot of richie’s bed. he’s not bothered by richie’s mess of unwashed blankets and bed sheets, or the humidity in the room. he’s very much aware that richie hasn’t stepped foot out of his room for at least 5 days. he doesn’t care, obviously. 

richie unzips patricks pants and he knows patrick must mistake his eagerness as some kind of arousal, but richie just wants to get it over with. he just wants the pills already, he even thinks about asking patrick for the pills before he does anything, but he knows patrick wouldn’t give them to him, so richie will just have to suck it up. be good so he can get his reward. 

patrick pulls his dick out of his pants and richie opens his mouth, the second it touches his tongue his gut clenches and he’s filled with guilt, he wants to cry because of what he’s doing with his body, or more so what he’s letting the older boy in front of him do with his body. 

he wants to stop, pull off and cry. run away, as far away as possible. )he knows he wouldn’t make it far. with the state of his malnourished body. he can barely hold up his own weight.)

but the guilt is gone. it’s replaced with a bitter feeling of merit. he deserves this. every decision he has ever made in his entire life has led to this exact moment, and he knows he deserves it. his body is no longer his. patrick is free to use and do as he pleases with it. he knows he’s a disappointment in the eyes of his old friends (if they knew what he was doing right now) and society. but at least he can, if not pleasing the people he wish he could, please patrick. 

he accepts that this is all he’s good for, and with that, he feels a very dull warmth. 

his chest still tightens and the tears build up in his eyes but he won’t let them  
slip. 

he zones out and he can barely feel his body. 

as patrick comes in his mouth, his mind and body are once again centered and conscious. 

he’s expected to swallow. 

patrick pulls off, richie releases the tears that had been building up. patrick tosses him a bag. the faint sound of the pills falling in his lap promising. 

richie stands and walks to his dresser where he has an empty cup. he pulls out two pills. 

the vicodin. 

he places the cup over them and applies pressure, crushing the pills into small pieces. then, with his old school ID card, he crushes the pieces into a fine powder. his body fills with adrenaline as he’s finally got what he’s been wanting, what he’s been needing. 

he leans down and inhales. 

he adjusts the funky feeling in his nose as he walks back to his bed to sit down. it hurts, but he’s used to it. just like everything else. 

he’s pulled up to where patrick is now sitting against the headboard. 

patrick is well aware that richie is underweight but he, again, doesn’t care. if anything he prefers richie this way. it makes him vulnerable, and patrick enjoys the feeling of knowing that at any moment he could simply break richie. 

“you should clean this place up a bit, smells like sweat and piss.” patrick says not actually caring. 

richie hums in response not actually hearing what patrick is saying. a familiar haze fogs his mind and his limbs become heavy. he slumps into patrick and faintly feels him running his hand through his hair. he hears patrick say something again, probably something degrading. an insult maybe?  
he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care.

his heart begins to slow down along with the world around him. everything is so slow and he thinks that everything will just stop, the world, the hand in his hair, his heart. a rush of fear attempts to fill his body, but the drugs push it out. 

he knows that if his heart stops, he won’t care. he won’t fear it. he’s made peace with death and trusts that it promises something better. better than his life here on earth. if his heart stops, he knows he’ll be freed from his thoughts, his worries, the nuisance that is his physical being. when he’s dead he wont feel the constant hunger, the constant pain. he’ll be free from patrick, and he won’t need him to feel good anymore. 

he can’t remember what else he thinks about after that. his thoughts whisp in and out of his head like clouds, not lasting a second. he enjoys the dull feeling that sweeps his body off the ground, he’s floating, and for a while, the pain stills. this is what he lives for. the paltry, still moments in which hid head is quiet...blank. 

he drifts.

he ends up sleeping for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. i hope you liked it. i just want to clarify that this story isn’t beta read. this story was merely an idea that i wanted to write out. i dont have a solid plot plan so just enjoy the ride.  
> also i might upload a translation to this story in russian and italian. i wanted to write a really long chapter. by far the longest chapter i’ve ever written. anyway, stay tuned for the next one. can’t promise it’ll as long as this one :(

**Author's Note:**

> new story, will most likely continue this one. sorry fir never updating my other one. i needed a fresh start. this is a very short chapter to start things off. this will eventually be re-edited because of how poorly written it is haha. comments and feedback are nice. comment if you have any questions. 
> 
> ~e


End file.
